


I'm afraid and stuck in my ways

by eldersmcpriceley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, Doctor Watson, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Institution, Mentions of Suicide, Underage - Freeform, kind of, sherlock is a cocky little shit, sherlock is a genius
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:53:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7662031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldersmcpriceley/pseuds/eldersmcpriceley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm a genius," Sherlock tells himself in his room of white, "They don't understand, they don't see things like me."</p><p>Sherlock is unstable in some people's minds but not Johns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm afraid and stuck in my ways

**Author's Note:**

> \- John is over the age of 18 and Sherlock is only 16  
> \- There are general mentions of suicide and depression so if it's not for you don't read it!!!

When Sherlock was four years old, Mycroft joined a public school. He seemed to fit in and made a few friends who were like him, they loved spy films and could tell you the periodic table off the top of there heads. 

When Mycroft was sixteen he was a classified genius. He could sew clues together like Sherlock could tell you the answer to any math equation in under two minutes. But unlike Mycroft, Sherlock could read a person from one article of clothing. He knew when his mother had drank from the state of her ring finger and could tell whether his father was telling the truth about his late nights at work by his trousers. 

Sherlock went to public school just as his older brother was leaving and suddenly his world shattered. Deductions of every child's history were in storage under a file called 'blackmail' in his mind. When Edward Bones decided to pick a fight with Sherlock after an English class, Sherlock had corrected his grammatical error in front of everyone in the class then gone onto perfecting the teachers gramma on the slide, Sherlock looked Bones up and down.

"What are you doing? Checking me out?" Edward had laughed, everyone behind him following. 

"Why would I need to do that? Don't your parents do it anyway? You might want to tell your councillor about your home life, seems scarring." Sherlock replied, picking at his nails before watching Bones crumble into a mess of shouts and tears then running off into a dazed teachers chest. Sherlock didn't care for bullies, or anyone really. Mycroft had always told him less was more in the friendship department so Sherlock must have more than less friends.

As his high school career continued his brain became a palace. Nobody tried looking at him nor talking to him in fear of they're home life being exposed. A few teenages came into contact with him but the last person who tried to was taken into care because of Sherlocks deduction of his parents at parents evening, he could see by the blood stain on his fathers shoe that he was trained in slaughter and it was only a matter of time that a false accusation of the suicide of his mother ensued.

Sherlock left with straight A*'s and hoped to skip collage and get into Oxford in the blink of an eye. However, that plan radically changed. 

Mr James Bones, Edwards father, became a dead weight to his sons name and got himself into jail. Edward accused Sherlock of stalking his family as he knew his mothers occupation by the bag she'd bought him for his first day of school and suddenly stories were being printed in the papers of a 'Child Stalker' and 'Mind Reader'. The police had enough evidence from every student in his year of allegations Sherlock had made of their life that was either true or was to become true.

One day, Sherlock got a call from a Mike Stamford from a mental institution that he thought would help the family. His mother seized the opportunity as Sherlock had deeply effected them after becoming a threat to his brothers work as the British government.

The afternoon after Sherlock was being taken to a place he had no idea of, and Sherlock didn't like not knowing. From the voice of Stamford he could only pick up of a wife at home with three kids and that wasn't going to bail him out. He need someone on the inside, someone who trusted him.

He was taken to a ward that was a lot like a sad hospital without the smell and wires. Sherlock stride in front of the doctors and watched as they turned so he could follow them. He was brought to a holt after a room located at the end of a long corridor presented his name proudly on the door in messy doctors scrawl. The room wasn't new, nor were the covers or the paint on the walls. It was all a bore to Sherlock. No posters on the wall that he could learn from, no people to deduce and no back stories to store in his file.

Doctors kept an eye on him through the window in his door as he folded his clothes and placed them neatly, almost too neatly, in his draw. He didn't know why he was here. On approaching the room he could deduce three depression victims, two schizophrenics and no genius'. He'd never had a problem with his weight, so he wasn't there for his tall, slim build, he wasn't depressed because he has nothing to be depressed about. So why was he being monitored through small cameras in the corners of the room or living doctors through the window? Sherlock didn't like not knowing.

He'd spent three days in the centre before he met his assigned doctor. His name was Watson. He sat in a room filled with pictures of him and a woman that was too young to be his mother but not close enough to be a lover. He took one look at the doctor in his large chair in the middle of the room on a slightly raised platform and knew his sexuality, the schools he studied at and his family situation. Sherlock took long steps to the spare chair in front of the man who had earned the doctors title and placed his clasped hands between his thighs. The doctor smiled and held out his hand. Sherlock took it.

"Doctor John Watson, Sherlock Holmes." Watson waited for Sherlocks warm hand and after Sherlock hesitantly took it he picked up a pencil and took back to his original position in the chair. 

"Could you tell me why I'm here, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock asked. He felt more relaxed, like this new body was something new, Sherlock was missing one clue about Johns life but couldn't put his finger on it.

"Well, why don't you tell me?"

"I'm a genius, but nobody understands that."

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love feedback so I know whether to continue, this is my first mental institution FIC!


End file.
